


Come slowly - Eden!

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: porthos and treville vignettes in a universe [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Sex, they have sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 09:10:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12362439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: it's hot, ppl wear very few clothes, ice cream Features





	Come slowly - Eden!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> I am ENTIRELY embarrassed by this it is COMPLETELY Canadian Garrison's fault and I UTTERLY divorce myself from any responsibility. and I guess now I've blamed her I better give her the fic. Sigh. FRIENDS. WHAT CAN YOU DO?
> 
> oh the title's from an Emily Dickinson poem if that's your thing you should read Emily Dickinson if it's NOT your thing you should rethink your life choices and read Emily Dickinson.

Treville’s late to pick up Porthos and he’s stressed, frustrated, flustered, and too hot. He knocks on the door, realises it’s unlocked and opens it stepping into the house. It’s as hot in here as it is outside, hotter because it’s stuffy and still. He calls out and Porthos answers from the kitchen, Treville goes through wiping sweat off his forehead and is greeted by Porthos, d’Artagnan, and a very lovely woman. They’re all stripped down to barely anything, shorts and not much else, and they all have pint glasses of ice in front of them. There’s a fan stirring hot thick air around. Treville breathes out, glad he hasn’t been missed and that Porthos isn’t waiting impatient and anxious, and slumps into a seat. Porthos grins at him and reaches out to squeeze his neck. 

Or so Treville thinks. He yelps and leaps back to his feet when Porthos, instead, slips an ice cube down the back of his t-shirt, Treville wriggles trying to escape the icy trail and everyone laughs. The ice cube drops out and Treville drops back into his chair, glaring in a dignified manner. Porthos touches his cheek, face bright with amusement and affection, and leans over to kiss him. He has ice in his mouth and this time it’s nice, the cold slipping from Porthos’s tongue to Treville’s, cooling him in a less abrupt manner, the hot and cold making him shiver. Porthos pulls back with a smug smile. 

“Hi, I’m Constance, nice to meet you, apologies for the lack of clothing Porthos has decided to live in a sauna,” the woman says, leaning over the table and holding out a hand for him to shake. 

“Oh, you work with d’Artagnan, right?” Treville asks, taking the hand and running through what Porthos has told him about Constance. “Porthos says you’re the best woman in the world.”

“I do not,” Porthos says. Then he looks a bit sheepish. “I might’ve said that actually. You fed me a couple times, back when I first met Trev.”

Constance laughs, leaning on Porthos’s shoulder, hair tumbling about her. Porthos takes the opportunity of her head being close to pull her hair up and away from her face and neck, piling and twisting it on top of her head, using a wide hair band that Treville’s often seen around Porthos’s own hair. Constance sits up straighter and plucks her ice glass off the table, leaning back and pressing it to her cheek, legs spread wide, eyes closed. She really is quite glorious. Treville catches the look d’Artagnan’s giving her and has to stifle his amusement. He nudges Porthos and Porthos nods, grinning at him, and leans over to whisper. 

“Completely gone. Bet you a fiver he makes an excuse in the next ten seconds,” Porthos whispers. 

“I bet you it’s her who makes the excuse. Double,” Treville says. 

They shake on it under the table and watch the show. d’Artagnan shifts in his seat, eyes glued to Constance. It draws her attention and she gives a long slow smile, eyes going soft. 

“Right,” Constance says. “Time to be off, I’m going to go fuck d’Artagnan thoroughly. If I’m going to be too hot it might as well be enjoyably so.”

“Damn it,” Porthos says. 

“I don’t know if that counts as an excuse,” Treville says, laughing. 

“What?” d’Artagnan says, distracted. 

“Come on, lovely,” Constance says, getting up from the table. 

“You need clothing,” Porthos says, also getting up and chucking a t-shirt at Constance, another at d’Artagnan. They head out and Porthos sees them to the door, leaving Treville alone. He returns and sits on Treville’s knees, heavy and too hot. “We were going out.”

“You’re sitting on me.”

“You’re boney, it’s not very comfy,” Porthos says, as if it’s a great sacrifice he’s making. “You were late.”

“Yeah, don’t get me started,” Treville says. 

“Ok, I won’t. Do you want to have sex instead of dinner? I sort of have been snacking all afternoon, heat makes me hungry,” Porthos says. 

“I’m hungry,” Treville grumbles. “I haven’t been snacking all afternoon. Get off me, we can eat and THEN have sex.”

“Why don’t we compromise? I’ll have sex, you eat,” Porthos says. Treville snorts. “You could have me for dinner?” Treville pinches Porthos’s thigh. “You could eat dinner off me? With your tongue?”

“What kind of food would I have for dinner that I can lick off you? Soup?”

Porthos laughs so hard he falls off Treville’s lap and lies on his back on the floor for a while, tickled beyond reason by the idea of Treville eating soup off him. Treville gets up and finds Porthos’s stash of take out menus and considers that as an option for a while, until Porthos bounces back off the floor, enthusiastic all of a sudden. 

“Let’s have ice cream for dinner,” Porthos says. “We can go Italian and you can eat real food and I can eat ice cream and we’ll bring some ice cream back for you to eat off me.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Treville says. “You need clothing though.”

Porthos looks down at himself, then cocks a hip and looks slyly up at Treville, pushing his belly and chest out, straightening his shoulders. He looks ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop him being hot. Treville wanders over, grabbing a shirt off the back of a chair on the way, and runs a hand over Porthos’s belly, pressing a kiss to his chest, his neck, putting him in the shirt and doing up the buttons. Porthos smiles at him and takes hold of his chin when he’s done, pulling him into a proper kiss. He’s somehow got ice again and Treville moans, eyes closing, as it slides into his mouth, heat and cold. 

“Food,” Porthos rumbles “I want my ice cream.”

Treville supposes he is the one who suggested food should be first so he can hardly complain. When they get out of the house Porthos takes Treville’s hand before he can put it in his pocket as he usually does. Porthos likes to hold onto Treville’s hand, to tether himself, as if Treville might float away like a balloon. Or maybe he just likes holding hands and Treville overthinks a lot of things. When they go through a crowd of people Porthos holds on a little tighter and pulls their hands into plain view, a little wonky smile on his face. 

“I always wanted to be one of those visible gays,” Porthos whispers, smile evening up as it grows then wonking again as it grows again, as if it grows one side at a time. “See them walking around holding hands all happy like, I always thought ‘that’ll be me’, and here I am. Proper gay.”

Treville can’t think of anything to say about that. Porthos doesn’t mind, he’s got plenty more to say on the subject; Treville gets a meandering treatise that ranges from ‘yay here’s to the happy queers’ to ‘it’s nice being visibly male’ to ‘I used to feel like I was the one holding hands, I’d wish that hard, but there was only emptiness’ and finally ends on 

“It’s funny, I never thought anything of it when people looked straight. Gotta identify with it, I guess. I think it’s that recognition, that sense of winning, that’s the spark. We got here. We can hold hands out here. I’m glad it’s you I’m holding hands with. Is that too soppy?”

“No,” Treville says, though he kinda thinks it is a little. “I like it.”

“How many days?”

“Six.”

Porthos swallows, then grins at Treville and kisses him in the street in front of a chattering crowd of tourists. Treville smiles against Porthos’s lips, leaning into him, hand against his cheek holding him, fiercely in love with him suddenly. His enjoyment of being something that scares the shite out of Treville a lot of the time. They might be able to hold hands in the middle of the street, but if Porthos wanted to wear a dress or if someone decided to be a dick… it only takes one. It only takes a small comment for things to shift, sometimes. It always frightened Treville to see it, but it made Porthos happy and hopeful and, knowing Porthos, probably protective of whoever he was watching. Treville presses his hand into the small of Porthos’s back and holds onto him, ending the kiss and embracing him instead. Porthos hums happily and sways them, then laughs and lifts Treville off his feet shuffling along whispering ‘ice cream’ into Treville’s ear. Treville frees himself and walks with dignity to the restaurant. 

Porthos eats two bowls of ice cream and watches avidly as Treville eats a bowl of pasta, as if it’s the most fascinating thing. He insists on going to pay the bill, when they’re done, and comes back with a litre of ice cream and a wide smug smile. He wiggles his eyebrows at Treville and takes his hand again for the walk home, singing softly to himself under his breath. Treville lets Porthos hold his hand and watches him, fascinated by him, enjoying everything about him but right now most especially enjoying the thickness of him against Treville’s side, his presence, his muscular arms out of his shirt, the width of his chest straining the button. Treville falls a step behind and Porthos lets go his hand, too happy and excited to slow himself. Treville was counting on that: Porthos is wearing a pair of shorts that are thin material and cling when he walks like that, pushing himself up and forwards with his muscles, springing along. 

“Are you watching my bum?” Porthos asks, tossing a grin over his shoulder. 

“Perhaps,” Treville says. 

“Carry the ice cream, then,” Porthos says, throwing it in Treville direction. 

Treville catches it and Porthos pushes his hands into his pockets, gives Treville a mischievous wink, and tugs the shorts tighter over the curve of his bum and thighs, swaggering onwards with a truly illegal sway of his hips. Treville trots obediently after him, all-but letting his tongue loll out. Porthos is laughing so hard he can hardly breathe when they get back to the house, he trips inside and rushes up the stairs, stumbling, calling for Treville to hurry up. Treville goes to get a spoon: he can’t lick a whole litre of ice cream off Porthos but Porthos will definitely eat whatever’s not on him. By the time he joins Porthos in the bedroom Porthos is completely naked. He’s sprawled on the bed in the yellow sun of the evening, the windows wide open, his body a loose, relaxed landscape against the covers. He’s also fast asleep and snoring like a tractor. 

Treville sighs and sets the ice cream on the side table. He’ll take it down to the freezer in a bit, it’s good ice cream it’ll keep. He spreads himself out beside Porthos and runs a hand over his chest, Treville’s cock stirring against his thigh. It’s a gentle stirring, Treville ignores it and thumbs over Porthos’s ribs, counting them, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the small rasp that comes in the evening after a long day. He tickles his fingers up to Porthos’s collar bones, resting a finger a moment on the scars, then on the scar higher up. He remembers that bullet; fucker to dig out in the middle of the desert but it was dirty. Treville moves on and cradles Porthos’s cheek. He likes Porthos asleep, in some ways, it’s so much easier to be tender when Porthos isn’t watching him, isn’t going to think anything of it. It’s such a vulnerable position to be in. Treville presses the gentlest kiss he can against Porthos’s slack lips. They move. Treville pulls back and finds one of Porthos’s eyes open. The snoring’s stopped. Porthos is grinning. 

“You fucker,” Treville whispers, pressing his fingers against Porthos’s cheek, which is round from grinning. 

“I was just gonna startle you or something,” Porthos whispers back, smile fading. “But then you were all gentle. I liked it.”

He reaches up with a hand that’s not entirely steady and cradles Treville’s cheek, finds the laughter lines, the scar, the wrinkles, unerringly. He rests his fingers against Treville’s lips and Treville kisses the tips. 

“I can be gentle,” Treville says. 

“I know,” Porthos says, brushing it off, impatient. “Shut up.”

“Um.”

“You were being different. Never mind,” Porthos says. “Do whatever you were doing to me ribs again, I liked that.”

Treville counts them again, pressing a kiss to each and saying the number out-loud making Prothos laugh and get up on his elbows to watch. 

“You thought maybe I’d got the wrong number?” Porthos asks, grinning. “Well I guess I do. Huh. Too many, I nicked one from you. I wonder if Eve was maybe trans? Like, that’d be a cool reading of Genesis right? The tree of knowledge gave Eve learning, like it brings her up to Adam’s speed, gives her the choice of gender. She chooses to be a boy because boys know everything.”

“There are flaws in your theology.”

“There are more flaws, Horatio, in your theology than are ever dreamt of,” Porthos says. “You gonna let the ice cream get entirely melted? I’m still hot you know. I keep all the windows shut, I love it being hot in here.”

“It is like a sauna,” Treville says. “So what, you want me to just plonk ice cream on you?”

“And lick it off,” Porthos says. 

“Yeah I’m not doing that,” Treville says.

“But-”

“Shhh.”

Treville pushes Porthos back onto the bed and goes to get a towel. He spreads it out and then spreads Porthos out on it, on his front, kissing his shoulders to keep him grumbly but happy. He is grumbly, annoyed that Treville won’t slather him in ice cream. It makes Treville laugh and he gives Porthos’s shoulders and back a rub to keep things slow and make him more grumbly. He gives Porthos’s naked bum a quick squeeze and sits up, taking a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth, letting it chill his tongue and lips. He sets the spoon aside and leans down, pressing his cold mouth to Porthos’s hot skin. Porthos makes a happy noise and Treville opens his mouth, letting the freezing ice cream melt against Porthos, licking it off and swallowing it then licking away the sweetness left between Porthos’s shoulders. Porthos moans. 

“Alright?” Treville asks, and gets a warm rumble in reply. 

Treville gets another spoonful and kisses down to the small of Porthos’s back, taking a new bite of ice cream every time he runs out or his lips aren’t cold anymore. He takes his time, kissing and licking, enjoying the heat of Porthos against his cold mouth, the cold ice cream cooling his lips when they’re warm from Porthos’s body. He enjoys resting his hand on Porthos’s arse cheek, rubbing with his thumb, enjoys the gentle rock of Porthos’s hips as he gets lower. Porthos runs out of patience eventually and flips over, probably getting ice cream all over the towel - Treville wasn’t done licking yet. 

“Do my stomach,” Porthos says, spreading his legs. “And lie on me, I want to hump you.”

“Romantic,” Treville says. “I’m not doing that, either. How am I meant to lick ice cream off you if I’m lying on top of you?”

“But-”

“Shh.”

Treville lies on his side, putting the ice cream down on the other side of Porthos, then lifts Porthos’s leg nearest him and crooks his own up, resting it against Porthos’s other thigh. He gets up on an elbow, then lets Porthos’s leg rest against his hip. Porthos gives a loud swallow and his mouth falls open, his cock wet against Treville’s thigh, his hand resting lightly clenched against Treville’s chest. Treville nudges and Porthos lifts his head so Treville can stretch his arm out, Porthos’s head resting on his biceps. He uses his free hand to get the ice cream and takes another bite, shifting so he can rest his lips around Porthos’s nipple. Porthos snorts and nudges him to the side until he reaches a sensitive spot he likes. Treville always forgets his nipples aren’t very sensitive, mostly there for ornament. 

“Can I have some?” Porthos asks, a little plaintively, eyeing the ice cream tub. 

Treville takes another bite to tease him, then presses their lips together, giving it to Porthos. Porthos makes an odd noise and Treville pulls away, unsure, but Porthos pulls him in again and strains up, licking into his mouth and chasing the ice cream taste, heating him up, tugging at his bottom lip with his teeth as he pulls away, flopping back onto the pillows. Treville gets him some more ice cream and gives it him the same way, heat and lips and both of them are shifting now, Treville’s cock is a heavy solid weight, thickening and hardening. Porthos is slippery and hot. Treville kisses him a bit longer, giving him enough ice cream to satisfy him, then moves back down his chest to his stomach, moving out from under his leg and getting between his thighs instead, using his hand to give Porthos pressure to rock against. Porthos holds onto Treville’s hair and moans loudly, bucks dramatically and then pushes.

Treville goes lower, letting his hands linger at the sensitive spots on Porthos’s stomach and sides, the cradle of his hip, the soft bruise of skin inside his thigh against his belly right at the top. Treville takes a mouthful of ice cream and presses his mouth there, letting the cold and heat tremble Porthos. He licks Porthos’s skin clean and pushes Porthos’s thighs wider, rubbing his belly, dipping lower. He uses the ice cream against Porthos’s thighs, taking his hand away from Porthos’s cock and leaving him keening and yanking at Treville’s hair. Treville smiles up at him and gives him a gentle, much too gentle, lick. Porthos swears at him and clenches his thighs around Treville’s head, pulling him down and making Treville laugh. Porthos gulps against the vibrations and trembles, knees falling open, gasping and panting as Treville laughs against him. Treville tastes Porthos and pauses. 

“Come on,” Porthos moans, groaning at once after speaking, loud and breathless, he’s so wet against Treville. “Oh come on, Trev. Come on my love, I love you get on with it, I love you god I love you.”

Treville puts his mouth around Porthos like he had with the ice cream, just heat here. He licks and sucks and Porthos gasps, hips pushing up and up, foot hitting the sheet under the rucked towel and sliding, knee bending again getting traction with his heels and pushing into Treville’s mouth. Treville takes a good breath and licks in a gentle rhythmic movement for a while, until Porthos is pouring with sweat and incoherent. Treivlle backs up and gets onto his knees, soothing Porthos down a bit, lying beside him and kissing long and gentle for a while, running his hand up and down his sternum. 

“I love you,” Porthos whispers, eyelashes damp, staring at Treville, mouth open. 

“I know,” Treville says, distracted by how hard he is. His cock is resting against Porthos’s hip and Porthos’s hip is lovely - warm, all Porthos-skin and muscle, slick from ice cream and Treville’s licking and from Treville’s cock. 

“Bloody Han Solo,” Porthos says. 

“I love you,” Treville says.

“Got you,” Porthos says. “You wanna come?”

“God yes,” Treville breathes. 

Porthos laughs and nudges him so he’s not resting against Porthos, shimmying down to Treville’s hips and holding on. He gives Treville a few licks, then laughs and makes a joke about an ice lolly, turning onto his stomach and giving his own thigh a slap. 

“You like it between me thighs,” Porthos says, resting his head on his arms and pushing his hips into the towel. “Mm. Nice like this.”

“You want to get off? I could get the vibe,” Treville says. Porthos shakes his head. 

Treville gets the lube instead and slicks Porthos’s thighs. It’s the tingling one so he rubs it in higher, too, and Porthos hums, content. Treville’s not very steady, his hand shakes as he guides himself between Porthos’s thighs. Porthos gives him a squeeze, thighs tensing then relaxing a little. They flex, rocking his hips, and Treville lets out an embarrassing little grunting sound, his own hips rocking forwards, his feet and calves and thighs flexing to get his body moving. It’s a familiar place and a familiar rhythm and he loses himself in it, in Porthos, and is surprised when Porthos turns his head for and kiss and he gets a mouthful of ice cream. The surprise loses his concentration and he’s orgasming before he can think of it, his cock giving a ferocious kick. He pushes himself up on his arms, straining and tensing, his muscles spasming, riding his orgasm out. When he’s done he flops down on top of Porthos and pants. 

“I’m too old for this,” he gasps, and Porthos shakes with laughter under him, reaching around to give his shoulder a clumsy pat. Treville rolls off him and lies on his back to get his breath. 

Porthos is impatient. He straddles Treville and rocks for a while, then shifts so one of Treville’s thighs is between his, which seems better. He seems happy there. Treville watches him through heavy eyes. 

“Don’t you dare fall asleep old man,” Porthos says, leaning forwards, hands on Treville’s shoulders, tensing his muscles. 

“Wasn’t,” Treville murmurs, already half gone. 

Porthos curses and grabs Treville’s wrist, pushing Treville’s hand between his thighs and clenching, relaxing, clenching, riding. Treville fumbles in the draw for the vibrator and rests it on his thigh for Porthos to push against as well and finally Porthos’s thighs do the spasming clenching thing that means he’s coming. He leans forwards, holding Treville’s shoulders, and moans, stills, and comes in a great rush, still, still, then rolling his hips over and over. Treville pulls the vibe out and his hand and Porthos lies on his side, thighs still around Trevilles, and hums and rocks until he’s a damp, sated mess. Treville falls asleep. He wakes up fifteen minutes later to find Porthos sat cross-legged on the towel finishing off the ice cream.


End file.
